


Scars and Stories

by BlueColoredDreams



Series: String Theory [11]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Getting Back Together, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Scars, discussion of past injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-02-10 19:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12919080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueColoredDreams/pseuds/BlueColoredDreams
Summary: Lucretia has scars from her years alone; Magnus doesn't mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Day three of magcretia week: Dates/Kisses
> 
> (While it’s not absolutely necessary to have read Down in the Valley for this fic, readers of that can rest easy knowing that this takes place in that in-fic universe.)

They’d said they’d take it slow, and for the most part, they _have_. It’s just, _it_ is a nebulous concept, and after weeks of talking and hashing and rehashing and setting boundaries, whatever _it_ is—it’s happening now. And maybe now is a good time—it’s almost a year since that disastrous conversation, and months since Magnus first offered his apologies after their time apart.

As far as dates go, Magnus kept it simple for this one—in past decades, he’d given her grand revelations, secret caverns and copses and days upon days in libraries both discovered and undiscovered. Nights in the open air and nights where they only saw the sky in each other’s eyes. But for this, after all that time, and after all the hurt, something simple and easy was more their pace.

Dinner, with wine and dessert and lots of talk, and a walk through the park in Neverwinter—past an open air concert that they watched with interest, past artists drawing by magic, and other couples like themselves, arm-in-arm and shoulders pressed together.

They buy spiced cider from a vendor and walk the slow path back to Lucretia’s Neverwinter apartment with his arm around her waist, laughing and loathe to part.

She studies him carefully, looking up at him before running her thumb softly against the buttons of his coat.

“Would you like to come in?”

Magnus looks at her, takes in her shy smile and the wonderful burgundy of her coat, face framed with a scarf and a kitted cap, takes in the languid buzzing of alcohol under his skin, his hand in hers, warm through their gloves.

She reaches up and cups a hand over his cheek. He covers her hand with his, leans down and kisses her gently. He’s been aching to kiss her all night, for weeks, for _years_.

She leans up onto her toes, pressing up into the kiss. Her mouth is cool against his and the pressure of her mouth against him is sweet like water after a run on a hot day. When he leans back, her grin is infectious, mischievous and young all over.

His chest aches with it—so often, the young woman he’d fallen in love with all those decades ago is hidden under layers of gravitas and responsibility and sorrow. He thought, for a while, that he’d never be allowed to see that spark of playfulness in her again.

How can he say no?

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I would.”

She squeezes his hand, and unlocks her door with a tap of her finger, her arcane focus bracelet jingling with the movement.

He laughs at the silliness, at the sheer impracticality of the gesture and use of magic. “Lucretia, you have keys.”

She tugs him inside, and the door swings shut behind him, more magic surely at work. Her face sparkles with it, her smile wide and eyes bright as she nudges him up against the door. She surges to her toes and kisses him again.

He sweeps her up against him, hands at the small of her back as hers smooth over his face, feeling his cheeks, the planes of his jaw, temples, tracing his ears and down to rest at the base of his neck, soft wool stroking at his hairline.

He picks her up off of her feet, still kissing her.  It’s so easy to gather her up in her arms and lift—she’s so small and light, he feels like he could just keep her in his arms forever. She pulls away, laughing as she clumsily kisses his chin, over his stubble and up his cheek.

She rubs their noses together, glasses pushed up with the movement. Her hat falls off and he grins at her, gently setting her down. He pets her arms, then her face, unable to stop touching.

“Do you want some coffee?” she asks softly. “I have cookies, all sorts of things. You could sit.”

He slips his hands down her neck to her scarf, slowly inching it from the confines of her peacoat. “Yeah, cookies, maybe just water, I…”

Magnus shakes his head, grinning as he slips her scarf from the not around her throat. He longs to touch the hollow of her throat, put his hands to her neck to feel the heat of her. He drops her scarf and fumbles with his gloves, dropping them as well.

He presses a thumb against her pulse, and she tips her head back, eyes fluttering, her hands tight over his elbows. Magnus leans forward, kisses behind her ear, then down, thumb slipping to fit perfectly in the hollow of her throat.

He taps his thumb softly. Lucretia ducks her head down and kisses the back of his hand, then steps back out of his reach. She slips off her gloves, tucks them into her coat pockets, and then unbuttons her coat and hangs it primly. She leers and gives a small chuckle as he starts to fumble with his own coat.

She takes another backwards step from the doorway, deftly stepping on the back of her ankle boots to kick them off without stumbling.

“How in all the planes do you do that?” he laughs. He has to lean down to unlace his own boots, stepping carefully out of them with a hand on the wall as Lucretia sheds her cardigan, leaving her in her turtleneck shell and her long skirt.

“Secret.”

He knows he must look like a dope, but he grins after her, shaking his head. He settles on her small sofa, trying not to think about the ache of want deep in his gut as he watches her slender arms reach for her teabags, as her fingers measure out sugar and how all she has to do is tap her knuckles against her teapot and it whistles instantly.

He watches her skin play against the wiry muscles underneath, and studies the traceries of scars she so rarely shows. He remembers the first time he’d seen them, under the delicate mesh of her dress at Killian and Carey’s wedding, and rests reassured in the knowledge that he can only see them because she’s comfortable with him.

She brings him a mug of tea and a container of crumbly cookies. “Angus helped me, I’m getting better all the time,” she says. “I didn’t even set anything on fire.”

Magnus laughs, taking one gratefully. “I don’t understand how you can _cook_ fine, but end up a disaster at baking.”

Lucretia shrugs and sips her tea. She sets it aside after a few moments, reaching out to brush a few crumbs from Magnus’ mouth. “The world is full of mysteries,” she says softly.

Magnus sets his tea down as well and turns towards her. She leans into him, one hand on his knee, the other on his cheek.

She kisses him softly, slowly.

She kisses differently than she used to all that time ago—before she _knew_ , she was steadfast in what she wanted.

She still is, but she’s more hesitant when it comes to him now. He hates it, but he doesn’t blame her; they’re both ginger and anxious, but it feels right, it feels like it’s time. She’s slower than she used to be, too: Her lips slow to part, tongue gentler as she traces his. He doesn’t mind—she warms up like the ground under the sun after winter. Slow, slow, slow, but beautiful when the warmth finally spreads.

He never wants to stop kissing her, never, but he pulls back when the warmth fans into a steady flame, when she’s panting softly through her nose, her fingers tight in his sweater.

He runs his hands across her shoulders, then her arms. “Luce,” he whispers against her mouth. “Lucy, I… I want you,” he says softly. He cradles her chin between his fingers, studying her enlarged pupils, her slick and kiss-swollen lips, the way she licks saliva from the corner of her mouth. “May I have you?”

She bites her lip and shrugs. She puts a hand over his arm. “I… Magnus, I don’t look the same,” she says. “You need to know that.”

“It’s okay, neither do I,” he reassures her. He brushes his knuckles over her face, stroking her jaw slowly. “I know neither of us are twenty anymore.”

“More than age,” she warns. “I have… all sorts of scars. It’s… it’s bad. My, my…”

She scoots back. She shows him her bare arms, and then gingerly lifts the bottom hem of her tank. Magnus catches sight of a ragged scar, a stretch of darker, shiny skin bordered by bright pink flesh, a stark contrast to her dark complexion.

She inhales shakily. “I got mauled in Wonderland. _Literally_. One of the swipes passed over my chest and… I just. It’s not just scars, it got my… It’s hidden by my clothes, but my breasts aren’t… one isn’t…”

She falters, arm crossing over her chest as she looks away. “It’s… well. Some people would say it’s unpleasant.”

He holds her cheeks between his palms. “If you don’t want me to see, I understand.”

“I want you,” she says. Her eyes dart away, staring at something in the corner of her vision before flicking back up. “I just. Wanted you to know. With Maureen, I was… my body was _always_ like this. But you… knew how it was before.”

“Lucretia,” he says seriously. “I don’t, stuff like that, it doesn’t bother me. I have all sorts of scars too, now. I’ve, I’ve seen you, all of you,” he says, voice cracking as he thinks of the times he couldn’t save her, or the times she only held on because she was stubborn. Of bright blood and viscera and the time she was the only times that kept them all alive. Of the silver light of the bonds that made up her soul. “If you want to show me, it’s okay. If you don’t, I understand,” he repeats.

They lock eyes for a moment and she sighs slowly, breath fluttering out of her like she’s deflating. She cups his face as well, just watching his face for a moment. “Okay,” she says.

She pulls away and for a second Magnus feels bereft, thinking she’s going to end the night, but she stands and leans in for a kiss, her hands on the hem of her tank. “You’re gonna, I’m gonna need you to strip at the same time,” she says softly.

Magnus stands so fast they knock foreheads, and she laughs, gently pushing him. “Magnus! Geesh!”

He grins and kisses her as an apology, then starts worming out of his sweater. He tosses it without a thought, and hears something fall over. He doesn’t look, because his eyes are fixed on Lucretia as she tugs her shirt off with that same cross-armed fluidity that had enraptured him so, so, so long ago.

He watches as her back arches with the movement, then gives a soft cry as he catches the extent of her scars. They cover her from shoulder to hip, long gashes of a creature that had been set on instant death; pink and mottled and long and he can see where her right breast doesn’t sit the same in the bra as her left, the outermost edge of a scar just barely visible.

She sets her glasses and shell aside, hair wild from the tug of her shirt, teeth on her lips.

She crosses her arms over her bra, hiding some of the worst of the raked-in scars on her skin. “…Okay, no, no, no,” she says, her voice shaking. “Not if you’re going to look at me like that.”

“No,” Magnus says softly. “No, I… oh, Luce,” he sighs, the feeling ripped from him. He feels raw just looking at her—he knows he’s nothing like he was before either, scars and marks litter his body, interrupting hair and the once-smooth flow of skin over his stomach and arms, but… Seeing her like this makes him feel helpless.

Something even rawer than pity surges through his chest. He reaches out and tugs her to his chest, cupping the back of her head. He buries his face into her hair and holds her tight.

“I just,” he says hoarsely, “I never… I just never realized _how much_ you went through then, all of what you did… until just… oh, Lucretia…”

She grips him tight for a moment, trembling in his arms.

He holds her tighter, kissing the side of her hair, her ear, her temple with a protective fierceness that he hopes she can understand. “I’m so glad you weren’t alone for most of it,” he says. And that, the first time he’s ever been thankful for Maureen, for what Lucretia did when he was gone, calms her. She melts against him, slowly petting over his chest with light fingers.

She leans back and starts undoing the clasps on her skirt, rolling it down with her stockings, leaving her in her underwear. Magnus kicks free of his pants, brushing his fingers over the lace of her bra, reaching around to unhook it with soft fingers.

He lets it fall, then cups both of her breasts in hand, kissing her as he rubs his thumbs into her skin. They’re uneven, yes; the one is puckered from the scar tissue, pulled out of shape and smaller than the other, but they’re still warm and soft and she still presses into his touch like before, so he grins and nuzzles her face. “I don’t see any issues here,” he laughs. “Breast inspection passed.”

She slaps his arm softly, “Go sit down, you,” she says. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, then bends forward to slip from her underwear. Magnus pushes down his own and sits comfortably against the pillows, spreading his knees out as she climbs up into his lap, arms looped loosely around his neck.

He watches her, studying the interplay of skin and scars. There are stories behind every one, ones that he doesn’t know, ones that she might not ever tell him.

So much that he was not present for; there was so much time that he didn’t even realize she _existed_ at all. All of the scars that he’s familiar with will never show on her body, burns and cuts and scrapes that got scrubbed from her each year, settling her back into soft, unpunished skin cycle after cycle.

He’d thought, once, a long time ago that it was unfair that they were wiped clean each time, with no marks to remind them of the battles they fought. Now, he thinks that while it’s unfair that Lucretia had to fight her battles alone, he thinks she wears them well.

He traces his finger across her throat, over the thin line that runs from under her ear to the center of her throat, then down to find the apex of the first scar under her clavicle. He traces it down, across her sternum ending at the center of her right breast.

“Does it hurt at all anymore?” he asks, hand hovering over her skin.

Lucretia shakes her head, then gasps as he rubs his thumb over the pitted flesh. She grips his hair as he dips his head down to kiss the misshapen circle of her areola. He strokes her hip softly, kissing up her sternum and neck.

She pulls him in for another kiss, fingers carding through his hair and his sideburns, giggling into his mouth as his fingers ghost up her sides.

And then pulls back, eyes fixed on her body.

He traces under her breasts, against her ribs and down to her navel, a third, shorter scar just one inch under. She shudders against his reverent touch, and he presses a hand flat to her chest, feeling her heart race beneath his touch.

Any lower, and whatever marked her could have eviscerated her. The thought terrifies him.

He could have lost her, but never known. He never would have known what he lost, her light extinguished, lonely and afraid.

He kisses her again, harder, hungrier. He moans into her mouth as she shifts in his lap, tugs at his hair and nips softly at his lip and pulls it into her mouth.

He pulls back, winded. He unwinds her fingers from his hair, kissing her palms and wrists, rubbing up her arms slowly.

There are discolored patches, across her chest, and on the insides of her elbows. On the outside, across her forearms are ribbons of scar tissue—four parallel lines, like someone clawed into her arms and tugged.

He sees the start of one under her arm, and his hand curves around her sides and feels the raised skin on the center of her back. It’s small, right between her shoulder-blades, a rope-like, ovoid patch of tissue that drags down.

He pauses, chest aching as he feels the raised edges of skin.

Someone stabbed her. Right between the shoulders, then dragged down—maybe she turned; maybe someone tried to pull her away. It hadn’t been treated by a cleric, judging by the feel of the scar. He remembers the way she would sometimes scar during the cycles Merle died in Parley, dark and hard and painful, spreading larger than the wound itself. Barry and Lup had eventually compounded a cream that eased the worst of it during the year, but this time there was no Barry or Lup or Merle; it had just been Lucretia, alone, and someone’s knife between her shoulders.

His throat tightens. He drops his hands to her thighs, and traces the bite wound on her upper right thigh.

Not all of these were from Wonderland—he knows that instinctually. She only mentioned it because she isn’t ready to divulge the others, and he’s all right with that. The time will come, he knows, when she’ll tell him all of her stories. And for her, he’ll be patient.

She reaches for him with unsteady hands and cups his face, her thumb brushing over the scar over his brow. He closes his eyes as she traces down it, then to the small sliver-thin scar over his mouth, thumb sliding over his lips.

Her hands slide down, and find the ones on his chest, where someone had gone for his throat and missed, the one from the bar fight that ended up with a bottle embedded in his side. The one from where his ribs had broken and punched through the skin. The pucker of skin on his stomach from a bad fall on a gig that was suicide to begin with. The burns on his hands from where he’d dug through the rubble of Raven’s Roost in vain. All the layers of carpentry accidents, a mesh of thin scars and webbed skin across the base of his thumb where Julia had sewn it back on and told him he was an idiot. The scars on his back from where he’d shielded a child from a spell during the revolution.

Her fingers curl into the hair on his chest and he cups her cheek, tipping his face up to his own.

And now, he tracks the other changes. The lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The sharpness of her cheeks. The wiry muscles and the change in the way her body shifts. She’s thinner, but her body carries her weight differently now. Before, she was soft-bellied and heavy breasted, and now her breasts sag just so and her weight is lower on her hips.

She’s so gorgeous still that he marvels at his luck, luck that they even met all those decades ago, that despite it all, they still came back together, that he loves her in all the new ways there are to love her.

He rubs his thumb against her side, then draws his hand up to cup her breasts, still soft and warm against his palms. He kisses her slowly, rubbing his thumb into slow circles against her.

Her hands rub against his stomach, and for a second he is self conscious. But she squeezes and pats him and adjusts herself in his lap, tipping his head back as they kiss. He reaches down and squeezes her ass, then lifts her against him by his grasp.

She arches her back and shifts her knees a little farther back, bowing against him in such a delightful way that he groans for her. She runs her fingers up, through his sideburns, then hooks her fingers behind his ears as she kisses him, open mouthed and soft.

He grips her thighs and drags her closer, rocking up against her as they kiss. She drops one hand from his chin to his shoulder, bracing herself.

He spreads a hand across her stomach and reaches down, slowly teasing her open with a slow middle finger.

Her hands grip his shoulders, shifting into his touch. He pets over her clit lightly and her hips drop against him as she pants.

He pauses and she presses her face to his neck, pushing forward against his hand.

She used to be louder, but he slips his touch down and finds her wet— she murmurs against his skin, a low sound of pleasure. He kisses her temple, pressing his nose to her hair as he slips a second finger against her, rubbing slow circles to either side of her clit.

She gasps softly, turning her face up against his jaw, body trembling. Her fingers press into his skin, nails generating sparks of pleasure as they scrape against his shoulders. Her thighs shake against his hips as she rocks into his touch, mouth open and warm against his pulse.

He presses a finger up against her as she grinds down and she finally moans, something quick and low and he hums in appreciation.

“There you are,” he murmurs, kissing her temple as he speaks.

Lucretia shakes, and then rocks down hard on him, voice stuttering out again as he shifts his hand, thumb against her clit.

He rubs circles against her, feeling her twitch under his touch. He slips a finger against her entrance, tracing slow circles around her, just feeling.

Feeling the warmth of her, the softness of her lips, the way she trembles against him, slowly rocking against his fingers for friction.

“ _Magnus_ ,” she whispers. Her voice is soft, but urgent in his ear.

He knows what she means; he slips his finger in, rubbing slowly as she rocks down against his touch. He takes his time, stroking her slowly in time with the circles he rubs around her clit.

He slips in a second finger, drawing down against her only to give a sharp thrust up. She jolts and moans against his neck, nails digging into his back.

He sets a pace of slow pulls offset with a few quick thrusts, and Lucretia starts to cry out, half-babbled versions of his name and sharp gasps.

“There’s my rowdy girl,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

Lucretia whimpers at the return of the old pet name, squirming against his hand. “Magnus, Mags, I’m not going to last,” she pleads with him.

He shudders, petting her thigh with her free hand, suddenly becoming aware of the ache in his own gut, the way he twitches against her thigh, her rocking hips providing just enough friction to keep him on the edge of pleasure. “Okay,” he says softly, nosing her ear.

“No,” she says, laughing softly. “Not okay.”

He presses firmly against his clit, angling his fingers just so—and there, she cries out, loud and sharp, just like she used to.

She drags her hands down his chest, taking him in hand. He bites down on his lip, hissing in quiet pleasure. She drags her thumb over his head, rubbing slow circles under the tip.

She leans back, and locks eyes with him. “I want _you_ ,” she says. She feels him twitch in her palm and she strokes him slowly. He groans and slips his fingers from her, gripping her hips tightly.

“Yeah?” he croaks.

She lines them up, rocking herself over his cock, using his head to part her lips . He grips her harder, his knuckles going white as the sensation of her rubbing herself against him trembles through his body.

She rolls her hips, and he groans so low in his throat that it sounds like a growl. He jerks her forward, and she laughs in delight as he drags her onto his cock.

Her voice is strained and rough, cracking as he thrusts up, but her pleasure is obvious. “There’s my rowdy boy,” she gasps.

Her return to their fond epithets does more for him than he’s willing to admit—though if she _asked_ , he’d tell her about the lurch in his gut and the visceral pleasure he gets from being hers, hers, and hers now again, always, just like before.

(If she asked, he’d fall to his knees and worship her, he’s sure. He would do anything in the sheer delight that she wants him; that she’ll have him; that she’ll ask him.)

She presses down on his shoulders, rising up onto her knees. He drags one hand off of her hip to cradle her back, looking up at her as she shifts into a slow rhythm. Her thighs tremble and she groans, back arching as he rocks up into her. Her fingers dig against his shoulders, and he leans to kiss her collar, her neck, up to her jaw.

She kisses him, panting against his mouth as he pulls her closer, spreading his knees a little more. She squeaks as she sinks deeper on him, then laughs. She picks up the pace, and before long, she’s twitching around him.

“Touch me?” she pleads, dropping her hips against him. He slips his hand around to circle her clit and she jerks, pressing herself harder against him, barely lifting up.

“There you go,” he urges, “That feel good?”

She groans, grips him hard and pulses around him. They fall out of rhythm, and she gasps as he slides out of her, sliding between her lips. Magnus ruts up, pulling her close as he finishes against the inside crease of her thigh.

She leans into him, and he strokes her back. They shift slowly, bodies still buzzing with arousal, each brush and movement eliciting soft whines and shudders; they lounge, Lucretia still straddling Magnus’ hips as he sits back, legs swung up onto her couch.

“That was faster than I remember,” she says lightly, grinning as she brushes his hair back from his temple.

Magnus laughs, gently pinching her butt. “It’s been a while,” he says, cupping his hands over her cheeks and lifting her up his stomach.

She laughs, adjusting her legs over him, kicking her feet back as she crosses her arms over his chest. “Are you saying my memory’s going, Magnus Burnsides?”

“Nah,” he murmurs. “You’re just _more_ than I remember, it… it was good for me. You were good—was it… was it good for you?”

Lucretia’s smile softens into something fond. She lays her cheek over his heart, nodding softly. “It was good,” she murmurs. “You’ve always been good to me, Magnus.”

Magnus shakes his head, reaching up to run his knuckles over her cheek. “Not always,” he says softly. “I’ve… you know that’s not true.”

“You’re going to make it true,” she says serenely. She reaches out and tugs the blanket from the back of the couch, tugging it over them.

“I’m going to try,” he promises.

She leans up and kisses him softly. “Today was good, tomorrow will be good too,” she breathes.

He wraps his arms around her and lets her nestle against his chest, stroking over her back slowly, learning the new ridges and gaps as she sleeps until he, too, slips into sleep, warm and comfortable on the little couch. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small epilogue to this fic via the “I wish you would write a fic where” open prompt on tumblr. An anon asked for magcretia kisses (“and stuff”).

Lucretia wakes slowly, aware before she even opens her eyes. First, the solid warmth of a body underneath her, the steady thud of a heartbeat. Underneath her cheek, the thrum and irregular breath of a slowly hummed tune and the slow twitch of muscles as her hair and shoulders are idly stroked. Then, the soreness of her lower gut and as she shifts slowly, between her thighs.

Then, the creaking ache of old joints, the tingle of an asleep limb, the sticky feeling of sweat and saliva sticking her to a patch of skin underneath her. Her toes are cold, the quilt rucked around her middle.

She turns her head slowly, nuzzling sleepily into the hair on Magnus’ chest. He breaks off the song to laugh.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

She shakes her head and yawns against his chest. She scoots herself up a bit to rub her face to his neck, tucking her head underneath his chin. “You?” She asks fuzzily.

“I woke up on my own,” he murmurs.

Lucretia yawns again, feeling sleep dance at the edges of her consciousness. She opens her eyes to the magically darkened room, the spell that trims her lights for her long since activated. She peeks towards her desk, where a single lamp remains on, a softly glowing dome of colored orbs much like a Galilean thermometer, tells the time. A blue bauble, the same as the glow of the dome, floats near the top, signalling it’s a little past midnight.

“Bed,” she says. “‘Ll regret it if we sleep here all night.”

“I can go home,” Magnus offers, misunderstanding.

Lucretia shakes her head. “Both of us,” She clarifies, slowly sitting upright.

She feels her face warm with the flicker of heat sparking in her lower stomach as she settles, straddling Magnus across the hips.

She presses her fingers to his chest, thumbs rubbing a slow circle. Want makes its home on every inch of her skin, throat tight and heat aching between her legs.

He watches her intently, eyes shining in the blue light. He licks his lips, gaze dropping from her face to her body, then back up as she shifts herself just so against him.

“Are you inviting me to bed, Madame Director?” he teases, hands skimming up her thighs. His voice is already hoarse.

She thinks for a moment his hands will continue up, like he used to, up over her stomach to her breasts, then neck. Instead, he slides his hands around and braces his palms to the small of her back.

He scoots her forward and presses a hand up to the center of her back, urging her forward into a kiss.

It’s soft at first, barely parted lips and a hand stroking her hip. She leans into it, letting him guide her into an almost lazy kiss. He holds her steady as he sits up, picking her up and resettling her in his lap.

She cups his face between her hands, pulling his lower lip into her mouth. She sucks on it once, then drags it between her teeth as she pulls back to answer.

He surges forward before she can finish a breath, tongue slipping into her mouth. His hand combs into her hair, angling her head just so as he rolls his tongue against hers.

She inhales through her nose, breath stuttering into small little gasps as they kiss.

They rock back and forth with it, Magnus’ hand on her back as he leans her back, then sliding up her shoulders as she presses him forward. Slow, almost chaste with pecks and closed lips, then hungry, all open mouths and tongues.

“Magnus,” she finally murmurs. He kisses the path of saliva at the corner of her mouth, then down her neck. He twitches against her thigh. “Magnus.”

“Yes,” he murmurs. He draws away and she leans back, sliding to her feet. She reaches out and he takes her hands, grinning in the now aquamarine light, the blue bauble sinking as a green one rises. She walks backwards, over the discarded blanket and her clothes. Over the dog bed and her box of files from work that she’s going to ignore in favor of Magnus’ company for the next few days.

She lets her knees hit the edge of her bed and she lets herself drop, falling into bed, legs over the side, Magnus between them.

He kneels and hooks her legs over his shoulders, kissing her knees with a gentleness that sends a wave of heat through her from head to toe. And then he leans forward and sets her on fire, mouth hot against her center as he lathes attention onto her until she’s nearly sobbing.

He climbs over her and they roll, her legs hooked around his hip and his hand on the back of her thigh, hitching her higher. She grips him as tight as she can, gasping at the fullness of him; he murmurs against her temple.

She laughs, high and breathy as he rocks against her, whispering back as she tips her head back for a kiss. He comes as she kisses him, her hands on his ass to pull him closer to her and she rocks on him even as he softens and slips from her. He shifts, pulling his knee higher so she can finish on his thigh, body drawn tight tight tight, until she’s limp and warm against his chest.

She luxuriates in the sweaty warmth and feeling of where their sticky skin touches until they cool and sleep threatens to steal them both away. She murmurs a cantrip against his neck as Magnus begins to snore.

She wakes up again to the rosy pink glow of the early morning bubble and the overwhelming need to pee. She leans back and admires Magnus’ sleeping face: mouth wide open as he snores, drool glistening at the corner of his mouth, hair everywhere, sideburns flat on the side he’d slept on and wild on the other from her wandering hands.

She grins to herself and slips from the bed, stretching as she wanders to the bathroom. She doesn’t bother with the lights, intending to go back to sleep as soon as she’s done— her legs are too wobbly and sore from exertion to bother with the pretense of anything but a lazy day.

She washes her hands and lets her mind wander. Breakfast, then maybe a shower with Magnus and another round, and then a walk with…

“Oh. Shit,” Lucretia breathes. She darts out of the bathroom and makes her way back to her bed, shaking Magnus with her wet hands.  
“Wha—”

“Muffin,” she whispers urgently as Magnus blinks himself awake.

He grins sleepily at her. “Pet names already, baby?” he yawns. “That said I’d like one that isn’t your dog—wait a second, where is—?”

“Muffin,” Lucretia repeats, shaking his arm again. “I forgot to pick her up from Carey and Killian’s last night!”

Magnus sits up and runs his hand through his hair, blinking quickly as if that would wake him faster. “We forgot, we were busy. It happens.”

“I forgot my dog,” Lucretia whines. “ _Magnus_.”

Magnus laughs and leans up to give her a quick kiss. He grabs her clammy hands and gently pulls her forward.

Lucretia climbs onto the bed and sits on her knees, frowning. “Mags, we gotta…”

“Shhh, come back to bed,” he says, kissing her again. “Muffin’ll live. Carey and Killian would have called if it was a problem.”

“Magnus, you’re… not focused on dogs?”

He laughs and cups her cheek. “Not with you right here.”

Lucretia looks at the clock, then back at Magnus, panic softening into something fond in her chest. “Well,” she says slowly. “I’m sure they’re not awake yet.”

“They won’t be awake until afternoon.”

“Don’t push it, bud,” Lucretia laughs, letting Magnus pull her back against his chest and into the warm cocoon of blankets. “I’m setting an alarm for nine.”

“Whatever you say, Lucy. Whatever you say.”


End file.
